


fuck me pumps

by coffeeandoranges



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-12-01 21:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20907800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandoranges/pseuds/coffeeandoranges
Summary: In Alaska, Villanelle and Eve have a disagreement about shoes.





	fuck me pumps

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my talented beta, [damnslippyplanet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet), for the beta read and also for your gentle encouragement/enabling of my obsession with this show.

“Eve!” 

Eve was setting down bags of groceries on the counter and her startle reflex sends them flying, a carton of milk landing on its side, apples rolling. 

“Jesus!” Eve’s hands go to her hair, the way she does.

“Did I startle you?” Villanelle says. 

“Jesus— No.” Cursing, Eve sets the carton back on its feet, then gestures wildly to Villanelle’s feet. “But why— why are you wearing those?”

Villanelle, who is wearing a Gucci jumpsuit and six-inch heels, smiles sweetly and picks up an apple. “Fuck me pumps?” 

Eve shrugs. The movement involves her whole arm from shoulder to fingertip. She never does things by halves. It’s one of the things Villanelle likes about her. 

“Why do you think I’m wearing them?” Sugar-sweet— Villanelle has endless patience for Eve. Less so for the apple in her hand, which looks waxy. Good produce is hard to find in the Arctic Circle. 

“I wanted to find out what you like,” Villanelle says. 

Oh— there is one of those little expressions on Eve’s face that lets her know she said the right thing. Desire shows on Eve on her cheeks and mouth: reddened cheeks, slightly open mouth. It makes Villanelle want to kiss her. 

They haven’t, so far. 

Luckily, Villanelle has all the time in the world. 

“So,” she says, “do you like them?”

Eve leans a little closer. “They’re nice.”

Then Eve pulls away. Her scent seems to linger for a half-second in the space her body made.

“I asked you not to wear shoes in the house though.”

Villanelle closes her eyes and makes a face. “Oh.”

She waltzes to the door, soft leather in her hand a consolation prize.

“This way,” Eve says behind her, “I get to watch you walk away.”

Villanelle looks back sharply but Eve is already pretending to put the groceries away. “Eve!”

A glance back and an innocent look from Eve, and the shoes hit the wood floor with a clatter. 

“Happy?”

“Yeah.” 

Eve leans back with her elbows against the counter, bracelets dangling from her wrists. She’s still wearing her usual dark shapeless outfits but Villanelle has managed to get her to concede to a few pieces of jewelry.

“What are you looking at?” 

Eve laughs. “I still can’t believe you really wear that stuff all the time.”

Villanelle sits down on the couch, the white vinyl crackling under her weight. The house they rented has an open floor plan, and all the furniture is mid-century modern-- stylish, if not her taste. 

“You thought I just wear it for jobs?”

“Well, yeah.”

Villanelle _ tsk _s at her. “I wear it all the time. It’s like the movies. The beautiful Russian spy.” 

Eve snorts. “I’m not James Bond.”

“No,” Villanelle admits. “I’m not the spy either.”

“I don’t know why I thought that.” Eve reaches for the paper towels to wipe down the kitchen counter. “I just used to have this idea of you-- dressing up for interrogations or something.”

Now Villanelle laughs. “I don’t interrogate men. I kill them.”

That makes Eve go still, and then a new expression rolls across her face: softness. Eve likes when Villanelle talks about killing. Villanelle knows; she’s watched Eve’s reaction every time. And each time she braces for that look of blankness, the face most people make when they don’t understand, and each time Eve does something different.

It’s astonishing how lived-in their silences feel. They’ve been in Alaska for three weeks but it started before that. 

“You were in my apartment in Paris,” Villanelle says. “You looked through all my clothes. What did they say about me?”

The professional side of Eve comes out instantly. “You’re flamboyant.”

On the couch, Villanelle lets her limbs go limp, playing dead. 

“You have a flair for the dramatic.”

Villanelle rises from the dead and pouts. “I just like for life not to be boring, that’s all.”

Eve’s smile is knowing. “Like a movie?” 

“I watch a lot of movies.” Villanelle frowns and nods. “I learn a lot from them.” 

Something about that makes Eve retreat; she looks down at her hands, where she’s worrying a dish towel. She’s twisting her wedding ring around with her finger. 

“Real life isn’t like that,” says Eve at last. 

Villanelle leans forward and props her chin up on her hands. “Is this not real life, Eve? This, now?”

“No.” 

Eve shakes her head, presses her mouth closed. The opposite of desire. Villanelle wants to stamp her feet and scream. 

“This is your life now,” Villanelle says. “You’re alive here. You’re dead with him.”

Eve’s reply is quick and vicious. “Don’t talk to me about him.” 

Villanelle raises her hands in surrender. 

“I won’t. Okay.” 

She plays with the fabric of her jumpsuit, cold silk soothing hot rage and frustration, from weeks of seeing Eve, of smelling Eve, of watching Eve pull on dark slacks and gold jewelry, and not being able to fuck her. 

“What movies do you like to watch?” 

Eve’s voice cuts through her thoughts. 

Villanelle considers. “I don’t know. Old stuff. With the singing and dancing.”

“You like _ musicals _?”

“Yes,” says Villanelle, suddenly defensive. “I like other things too. But always old movies. I like Lauren Bacall.” 

Villanelle pretends to light a cigarette and shake blonde bangs out of her eyes. Eve chuckles, low and warm, and Villanelle feels like she’s won a prize. 

“Me too,” says Eve. “She is sexy.”

Villanelle rolls her tongue like a cat’s purr, trying to ignore the fluttering in her stomach at Eve describing a woman as_ sexy _. “Very sexy.” 

“Who else?” 

Villanelle sets her jaw and looks up at an imaginary camera. 

“Ava Gardner too.”

“Oh!” Eve groans. “God, yes.” She rubs her neck with the back of her hand. “That one with her and Gregory Peck. _ God _.”

“You masturbated to it?” 

Now Eve’s eyes widen and she looks angry, but Villanelle can tell it’s not real, that it doesn’t go all the way down. Her eyes are warm, not cold; like they’re laughing. 

“You had to ask me that,” Eve says. 

“Well, did you?”

Eve’s angry face vanishes. “Of course I did.” 

Villanelle laughs, but then she feels sullen again, looking at her feet and wishing she was wearing her new shoes. 

“You’d let Ava Gardner wear her heels in this house.”

_ You’re not Ava Gardner _, Villanelle waits for Eve to say, but she doesn’t, because to Eve, she might as well be. Eve has masturbated to Villanelle too, at least. Villanelle knows that much. 

“You know, it’s true, what I told that rich man,” she says. “I like beautiful things. I like to wear them in front of people I like.”

She pushes out her lower lip, just a little. Eve is watching her with that softened expression and Villanelle wants to push her up against the counter, or buy her lingerie and good red wine. “You deserve beautiful things.” 

She lifts an eyebrow and walks toward Eve slowly. “And I am a beautiful thing.”

Villanelle stops in front of her, feeling the warmth of Eve’s skin as they get close again, close enough to touch.

“You’re not a thing,” Eve says into Villanelle’s ear. Her hair tickles Villanelle’s neck. 

Something in Villanelle’s chest constricts and she feels tears gather at the corner of her eyes; surely this must be the same look she had in the mirror in Amsterdam, when she thought to herself,_ I might be in love _, for the very first time. 

Eve’s lips have parted, her breath coming out warm from behind her teeth. 

Villanelle breathes out and feels Eve’s lips ghost over her own mouth in return. 

“If you keep making that expression, I will kiss you.” 

Eve tilts her head. “I’m not saying no.” 

Villanelle blinks; something in Eve’s eyes doesn’t look ready. Still uncertain. Villanelle squashes her disappointment; she wants Eve to be certain. 

Villanelle pulls away. 

“Where would you like our first kiss to be, Eve?” She blinks away her own tears, tears she knows Eve doesn’t believe are real. “At night, under the stars?”

Eve nods but doesn’t say yes. “I’ll tell you when it happens.”

“There are so many stars up here, at night,” says Villanelle. “It’s good because the produce here _ sucks. _” 

She learned the word “sucks” from an American movie. The crisp sound of the word in her accent breaks the moment they are having, and better still, it makes Eve laugh. 

“I wanted to cook you dinner wearing those heels,” Villanelle says. “Would that be alright? I just bought them. They shouldn’t be dirty.”

Eve swallows and nods. “Alright.”

She skips to the door, full of what Konstantin would describe as “childish joy.” She doesn’t put them on there. She will spare the carpet in the living room, and only wear them in the kitchen. That way Eve will see, how careful she can be. 

Villanelle smiles as she buckles the straps. 

“What?” Eve says. 

“Nothing.”

Villanelle knows how she looks in every piece of clothing she owns. And she knows without looking what an extra six inches does to her body: how it lengthens her torso, pushes out her ass. _ Let her enjoy. _She watches Eve’s face as her posture changes. As she reaches up to the highest cabinet to put the apples away. 

Eve sighs. “You wanted me to fuck you.”

Villanelle stops.

They’ve discussed this, more or less, if not in so many words, but not with_ that _ word. Not out loud. But now that word is out there, hanging in the air, delivered in Eve’s flat American accent that makes everything she says sound so direct-- Villanelle suddenly hates it, she hates how crude it sounds. She wrinkles her nose. 

“Why else would you be wearing_ fuck me pumps _ to make dinner?” Eve asks her. 

Villanelle slams a cabinet door. “If I wanted to fuck someone, I wouldn’t be here.” 

She wishes she could hold up a knife for emphasis but that would violate the so-far unspoken rule of Alaska: no knives. “I’d be with those girls.”

“Which girls?”

That stings a bit. “The girls you were so jealous of,” says Villanelle. “Remember?”

“Ah.” 

Eve runs her tongue over her teeth, looking abashed.

“Instead I’m here, and I want to cook you dinner,” says Villanelle. “Maybe we can watch a movie tonight. _ On The Beach _, maybe. Ava Gardner is so beautiful in that one.”

Villanelle doesn’t wait for a reply, but takes a cutting board out from the bottom cabinet and starts cutting garlic for the spaghetti, careful to point the knife away from Eve. 

Eve touches her elbow.

“I want it to be here.”

“Want what to be here?” Villanelle says, setting a drain in the sink for the tomatoes. 

“Our first kiss.”

Villanelle turns to look at her. Eve is wearing her soft look, and her eyes are bright: she is being sincere. 

“It should be in the kitchen,” says Eve. “We’re always in the kitchen, aren’t we?”

Villanelle smiles, her heart beating faster in her chest. “Now?” 

“_ No _, not now,” says Eve. “Later.” 

Villanelle can feel her face fall, and Eve must see it too because she touches Villanelle’s arm again. 

“I want you to kiss me,” Eve says. “Tonight.” 

Eve’s touch lingers on Villanelle’s wrist; Villanelle wonders if Eve can feel her pulse beneath her fingers-- if she can tell it picks up whenever Villanelle can feel Eve’s skin against hers. 

“We’ll eat our spaghetti, watch our movie, leave all the dishes in the sink,” Eve says, smiling. “Then, when the credits roll, I’ll say, ‘crap, we forgot about the dishes.’ And then we’ll get up and do the dishes.”

They’re close again— breathing in, breathing out— and Eve lowers her voice. 

“I’ll be washing up, and my hands will be wet. And you’ll put your arms around me from behind, and we’ll kiss.”

Eve’s smile turns coy. 

“Does that sound good?”

Villanelle feels herself shiver, warm between the thighs. She nods, up and down, not trusting herself to speak. 

Eve laughs.

“Smells good,” she says, gesturing to the slices of fresh garlic on the cutting board. 

Villanelle lets out a sound that comes out as a bird-like chirp; and then, her face flushed, sets herself to attacking the cooking. 

_ Until the end of dinner then. _

She knew the heels had been a good purchase.


End file.
